Paradise Lost
by Catechism
Summary: The disappearance of Harry Potter eleven years ago has been the subject of conspiracy and wonder. As war draws closer and the protection of innocence is cast away, the return of the savior they thought dead should have been a blessing. It wasn't. Dark!Apathetic!Harry Slash


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **Synopsis:** The disappearance of Harry Potter eleven years ago has been the subject of conspiracy and wonder. As war draws closer and the protection of innocence is cast away, the return of the savior they thought dead should have been a blessing. It wasn't. Dark!Apathetic!Harry

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

The night was disquieting as the town of Little Whinging slept, oblivious. Overhead, churning gray clouds obscured stars that would otherwise illuminate the darkness, and the darkness was indeed so profound that not much was distinguishable. The few trees aligning sidewalks groaned as harsh winds tore at their branches and rustled their leaves, their inky silhouettes swaying where they stood in dance to the sinister tune constituted by the impending storm. The creaking of buildings were lost amidst the din of the approaching storm, the air electrifying and expelling the discomforting scent of ozone.

Such was the nature of the night when the man materialized within the shadow of an especially large maple tree. He stood where he appeared for a mere second before breaking into stride, crossing the street and heading north. The homes he passed seemed to hold their breaths, daring not to utter an indication that life resided behind their blackened windows. Though this, he chose to ignore as he turned a corner, entering into the street of an immaculately kept community. Identical homes resided on either side, curtains drawn over black windows, and vehicles resting in their drives. Not a thing seemed out of place in Privet Drive, though this description of serene perfection and normality did not apply to this bizarre man who strode up the street.

Nothing like this man had ever been spotted in Privet Drive, and so it was a fair amount of luck that none of the residences were awake to see him. Dressed in a long robe and purple traveling cloak that swept the ground, his buckled heeled boots clicked noisily against the gravel road. Tall and thin, his senescence was evident by the silver of his hair and beard though the brightness of his blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles bespoke of power his frail body seemed not to hold. In all, the appearance of Albus Dumbledore in the little community was as suspicious as it was surprising.

The aged man slowed his lengthy strides into a leisure pace, bright eyes sweeping from one sleeping home to the next, only for a second, before locking on a particular home. Of all the houses of Privet Drive who's lights had long since been cut off and family put to rest, the sole light in the living area of number four would come as an annoyance, and surprise, of those who had been awake to see it. Albus made his way toward the lit house, nearing the small picket fence gate when he paused to look at a peculiar tabby cat sitting stiffly beside the entrance. The man gave a low chuckle, eyeing the feline with amusement as he said, "Good evening, Professor McGonagall."

The tabby gave him a severe look, strange in its own for any creature to maintain such a human-like expression. Yet the strange behavior of the stiff feline compared not to the sudden shift in its form. As the man watched, the tabby grew in size and shape, morphing into a thin, stern-faced woman with rectangular spectacles and black hair kept into a tight bun on her head. This woman, still staring at the old man with a ruffled expression, sniffed as she spoke, "Good evening, Albus." Her voice was clipped, sharpened with a note of unease.

"I did not expect to see you here," said Dumbledore with a smile of fondness to the woman before him. "Though I should have known you would not be able to stay put." He gave another chuckle, pushing open the fence gate of number four and holding it open for her as she stepped through before following after her, the small door clicking shut.

"The Ministry is already present," McGonagall informed as they approached the front door, lips pursued tightly. "The Auror's are inside as we speak, along with Kingsley."

"And the boy? What of him?" asked Dumbledore, pausing outside the door to eye his companion with a grave expression.

"He hasn't said a word since they've arrived," supplied McGonagall. "Or from what I've witnessed since my coming here."

Dumbledore, if he had more to say on it was not given the chance as the front door was opened. A tall man of lithe built with dark skin and clever eyes was who greeted them, and as he stared at the faces of Dumbledore and McGonagall, surprise was not evident on his face as though he had expected their sudden appearance all along. Dumbledore, face still a mask of grievance, offered the man a smile. "Kingsley, it has been some time, my friend," he said.

"Albus," the man, Kingsley, said with a sharp nod of the head and stepped to the side to allow the two newcomers entrance into the home.

Dumbledore, having been inside the residence of number four once before (though it had been some years) could not conceal his horror at the sight that greeted him. Gone were the white walls that now were leaked red, the liquid coalescing into a shallow downward stream that was consumed by the carpet. Glass shards from shattered frames left a trail from the top of the staircase, slithering into the kitchen. An umbrella stand laid on its side, a deep crack crawling up the side. The air was suffocating with a scent, of copper and death, of pain and fear. Dumbledore shared a long glance with McGonagall, the woman's usually composed face drained of blood and marred with shock at the display.

"It becomes much worse than this," said Kingsley with a grunt, eyes hard. He cast them a blank look, nodding his head toward the kitchen. "The Muggle man is in there – the mother and son in the living area."

"And all of them are – are dead," breathed McGonagall in a small voice. "How could this – how can this happen?" Her eyes looked over to the stain of blood on the wall, and shuddered. "I thought the wards in this house were put in place to protect the family – how could –"

Kingsley gave her a deadpan look, a sigh leaving him. "It was the wards that alerted us of the breach in the homes security, however, we have yet to find traces of magical signature that pinpoints the culprit," he explained slowly, lips curling. "As of now, we're started an investigation on any possible leads, but there is little to work with."

"What of the boy?" Dumbledore piped up, drawing the eyes of the two back onto him. "Is he unharmed?"

"Virtually untouched. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises on him – none by magic – he's fine," sniffed Kingsley. "Though he won't speak to any of us."

"I see. Might I have a word with him?"

Kingsley opened his mouth only to close it, staring at Dumbledore with a strange glint in his eyes before he gave a short, jerky nod of the head and led the way. Inside the kitchen the scene of carnage was indeed much worse. The Muggle man, whom Dumbledore knew to be Vernon Dursley, laid on his back, eyes wide and face twisted into a silent cry of pain. Dumbledore averted his eyes quickly when he noticed the large, gaping hole that adorned the man's neck and stomach, nose caving in slightly as they moved past the body a Healer was in the process of examining under the watchful eyes of three other Auror's. Inside the living area, they found the mother and her son interlocked, the frail woman's body attempting to shield her son's. Dumbledore closed his eyes, turning his head away from the mutilated forms of Petunia and Dudley Dursley.

"There he is," grunted Kingsley, coming to a halt.

Dumbledore and McGonagall flanked either side of him, the three creating a barrier – a blockage – around the small child who sat huddled in a corner near the window. Dumbledore glanced over at McGonagall, her face a twist of confusion. He looked back to the child, offering him a gentle smile as he said, "Harry, my how you have grown, my boy."

The boy in question was beautiful, there need not any doubt or question of it. Waves of sable hair hung around a soft and delicately shaped face, overgrown and unkept; just as his hair was pigmented with color so black it seemed blue, his skin was snow white, untouched by the scorch of sunlight. His body was small, in both height and frame, appearing even frailer in the baggy, second hand clothing he wore and that hung from his petite form. Upon further examination, there seemed not a trace of the boy's father in his features, his small nose and lips purely from the mother Dumbledore and McGonagall both remembered so fondly of. Yet, as they continued to stare at this boy, the two begin to feel trickles of unease as he stared back at them.

It was those eyes of his, Dumbledore decided, that put them off. As beautiful as they were, his gaze was too eerie, too focused and knowing for a child his age.

Surrounded by thick, dark lashes, the vibrant green eyes were off-putting. The longer Dumbledore remained under this child's stare, the more his unease grew. McGonagall, who was experiencing the same, felt as though she had been forced beneath an examination table and stripped of skin and bone to be scrutinized at leisure. It was an unsettling sensation.

The boy, Harry, was no more than five but to produce such feelings of wariness within them left Dumbledore with a foreboding consideration on what type of person the boy would grow to become. Nonetheless, he masked his unease with a warmer smile as he approached the child. "How are feeling, Harry?" he asked slowly, cautious of his speech as he gauged the child's reactions.

No reply came.

Dumbledore, not put off by the lack of a response drew out his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, materialized a chair from the kitchen beside him. He sat with a flourish of material, making to slip his wand back into the pocket of his robes when a soft, mellifluous spoke out.

"Do that again," was the request.

Dumbledore inclined his head to the boy, mouth curled into a smile of amusement, though even for him it was half-hearted. Hearing those words, as innocent sounding as they were, were troubling; they sounded far too familiar for his comfort. With a small twitch of the wrist the broken coffee table repaired itself whole, and the boy leaned forward in interest. He held out his wand for the child to examine closer, eyes locked onto the pokered face before him. Green eyes clashed with his own as the boy nodded to his wand. "Aunt Petunia said magic wasn't real – that is was impossible," he said, casting a glance toward the corpse of the person in question. "But I knew it. I knew it was all real."

How troubling to hear a small child to say such a thing, to look at the violated body of his relative without even a flicker of emotion. Dumbledore frowned, putting away his wand and looking over his shoulder to where McGonagall and Kingsley stood; they too seemed to share his sentiments. He cleared his throat. "Harry, if I may ask, what happened to your relatives?"

A thin brow arched, then settled back into place. The boy gave a shrug, gracing the bleeding bodies of his aunt and cousin with a dismissive off sort of look. "I don't know," he said.

"Oh, you don't know or cannot recall?" asked Dumbledore, frown deepening as he considered the possibility that the child could be lying to him. Though, he also could not exclude the chances that whoever had broken through the wards he himself had set up had also Oblivated the boy's memories, though why he could not begin to guess.

"I said I don't know, isn't that enough?" Annoyance flared in his voice, dissolving the beauty of it as it darkened and turned fridge.

"Yes, I suppose that is enough," murmured Dumbledore. The boy gave a sniff, turning his attention away from them as Dumbledore returned his eyes to Kingsley and McGonagall. All three looked from one another to the boy who had resumed his blank staring into space. Dumbledore rose to his feet, sparing the silent boy another long look before beckoning McGonagall and Kingsley to follow after him. Outside the range of hearing, Dumbledore allowed his schooled expression to drop slightly. "He is not what I expected," he stated.

Kingsley snorted. "Biggest understatement of the year," he said with another grunt.

"Dumbledore, the boy – he's rather – he's nothing like his parents," McGonagall strained out. "I've never felt that form of magic – and his eyes—"She trailed off, throat tightening and lips trembling slightly as her face bleached of color.

Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "It is troubling, indeed, to see such behavior from a child," he murmured, "he looked unaffected by the death of his relatives."

"He looked like he didn't care, Albus," said McGonagall with a sharp snap," as if nothing was wrong with the sight of his dead relatives. It's not right, Albus. There is nothing right about a child being emotionless about the death of his family."

"Is it possible that the boy in there is not, in fact, Harry Potter?" Kingsley supplied, warranting a dubious look from McGonagall.

"Not possible, Dumbledore and I were personally present when the boy was handed over to his relatives after the death of his parents," she said, making no room for disputing her fact. "That child – there's just something not right about him, but he is Harry Potter."

Kingsley, face puckered, gave a shrug and turned on his heel to return the house. He was still in the midst of an investigation, of course. Left to their own, Dumbledore and McGonagall made their way back to the picket fence gate, both lost in thought as they left the affairs of number four, and Harry Potter, behind them. Together they walked back to Little Whinging, neither speaking for the longest of times before McGonagall cleared her throat to ask, "What are we going to do with him now, Albus? He has no more relatives to house him unless – unless you'd rather he be placed with his only closet living relatives on his father's—"

"That won't be necessary," Dumbledore interjected quickly, waving away the notion of placing the boy into the care of the very people they fought to keep him from. "For now it would be in his best interest if he was housed elsewhere."

"Such as?" McGonagall asked, a hint of shrewd suspicion in her voice.

Dumbledore did not offer her an answer, bidding her a simple, "Goodnight, Professor McGonagall" before heading on his way. While she remained where she stood, rooted in spot as her mind worked to digest all that had occurred, the storm that had been impending finally broke free. Torrents of cold ran beat down viciously, unrelenting in its nature as it beat a steady dent into the roofs of the homes surrounding her. As McGonagall Apparated from the spot with a crack, another shadowed figured appeared outside the gate of number four. The rain seemed not to bother him for he stayed there, concealed and unnoticed for hours, watching the house with a crooked smile that never wavered.

 **…...**

"Begin the cleanup process," Kingsley ordered of his men, overseeing their duties as the begun to erase the evidence of their presence from the home. The bodies remained untouched, and as Law – a short, stocky Muggleborn with blonde with watery blue eyes – informed the Muggle police of the murder that had occurred, the rest began to leave. The Healers, looking downtrodden and put off by their inability to find residue traces of a spell on the bodies, nodded and bid the Auror's farewell before vanishing with a crack. Kingsley, sparing a final glance at the boy still huddled in the corner, sighed and moved over to where his subordinates were clustered.

Evans addressed him first. "We placed indication charms throughout the entire house, Shacklebolt, and whatever or whoever killed these Muggles was no wizard," he revealed, thick fingers combing through the mane of brown locks with a frown. "We may be dealing with a Dark Creature."

The girl beside him gave him a wide eyed look. "Should we get the DMCR involved?" she asked, biting her lips and twisting her scarred hands uneasily. "If we're dealing with a creature surely they could – "

"If Smith, if we are dealing with a creature," corrected Evans with a shake of his head. "It's a plausible guess but without any reliable leads, we're a bit lost on this case."

Eleanora Smith shook her head, red curls escaping from its bun as she leveled Kingsley with a dire expression of concern. "Has Potter said anything?"

Kingsley grunted. "Not a word," he murmured. "And I doubt the boy has much knowledge on what happened."

"You think his memory was wiped?" inquired Law, joining the trio with a raised brow.

"It's a possibility," said Kingsley. "For now we'll clear out of this scene. Smith" – Eleanora straightened, back stiff and fingers clenched around her wand – "Go and get Potter. We'll bring him with us. Someone at the Child and Family Care Department will take care of him until a suitable home can be found for the boy."

Eleanora bound off into the living room to retrieve Potter. As she entered the family room she found the boy to be missing. Her mind leaped to the conclusion that the child was hiding, and she carefully moved around the spacious area, calling out "Harry, sweetie, come out now," but received no answer. After a few minutes and still no Harry Potter in sight, Eleanora felt a pinch of unease coil in her stomach. Slowly, she makes her way back to Kingsley and the others, a nervous tic to her jaw.

"Where's Potter?" Law asked and Eleanora sighed.

"He's gone," she said stiffly. "He's not in the living room and he didn't answer me."

The party shared a quick glance, lips pulled into a dour line as they set to searching for the missing child throughout the house. Eventually, they all concluded that the boy was not inside, leaving them to step outside of the home. Immediately Kingsley drew his wand at the sight of a man. The fellow was a tall, thin man adorned in tattered grey and white clothing – Azkaban uniform, Kingsley realized with shock. The man's hair fell to his shoulders in waves, a deep black. It was only when he turned to face them, that the Auror's were startled at the sight of Sirius Black. Prison had not melted away the handsome features of the Pureblood, though his skin was sunken into his bones, his grey eyes wide and wild. In his arms, seemingly content to stay there, was Harry Potter.

"Black," snarled Evans, wand directed at the prison escapee.

Black blinked at them and gave a bark of laughter. Potter patted his cheek gently, returning the man's attention to him. "Are we going to go away now?" he asked, small hands fisted in the material of Black's clothing.

"Yes," rasped Sirius, nodding excitedly. "We're going home now, Harry."

"Oh no you – " the sentence had barely fallen from Law's lips when Black vanished from their sight. "Shite!"

Staring into the space where Harry Potter had once stood in the arms of a murderous criminal, Kingsley pinched the bridge of his nose with despair. This night had already gone from bad into horrid within a millisecond. Harry Potter had been taken right before his eyes; and by the very man who had caused the demise of his parents. "Return to the Ministry," he directed of the others.

"But Kingsley," cried out Eleanora.

"You will all return now and inform Madam Bones that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban and has taken Harry Potter," interjected Kingsley crossly. "Now. The sooner we find Black, the sooner Potter will be out of harm's way."

The others rushed to comply, leaving Kingsley to himself. For too long he stood beneath the pouring rain, drenched to his bones and mind numb with the realization that Harry Potter had been taken right before his eyes. Taken, and possibly dead by the coming days. He closed his eyes. This really was not a good day.


End file.
